He had come a long way. He had been down in the deep black valleys of
the Place of Darkness, and the iron frost was in his bones. He had
climbed the bitter mountains where no creature of the Twilight Belt
might go and live.
There was light, now. He had been lost and wandering, but he had won
back to the light. His tribe, his people would be waiting for him. But
he knew that he would never see them.
He remembered, then, with the old terrible loneliness, that they were
not truly his people. They had raised him, but they were not of his
blood.
And he remembered also that they were dead, slain by the miners who had
needed all the water of the valley for themselves. Slain by the miners
who had taken N'Chaka and put him in a cage.
With a start of terror, he thought he was again in that cage, with the
leering bearded faces peering in at him. But in the blinding dazzle of
light he could see no bars.
There was only one face. The anxious, pitying face of a girl.
Fianna.
His brain began to clear. Memory returned bit by bit, the fragments
fitting themselves gradually into place.
Kynon. Delgaun. Berild. Sinharat, the Ever-Living.
He remembered now with perfect clarity that he was dying, and it
seemed a terrible thing to die in the body of another man. For the
first time, fully, he felt the separation from his own flesh. It seemed
a blasphemous thing, more terrible than death.
Fianna was weeping. She stroked his hair, and whispered, "I am so glad.
I was afraid--afraid you would never wake."
He was touched, because he knew that she loved him and would be sad. He
lifted his hand to touch her face, to comfort her.
He saw the fingers of that hand, dark against her cheek. Dark....
His own fingers. His own hand.
He was not on the ledge. He was back in the coral crypt beneath the
palace. The light that had dazzled his eyes was not the sun, but only
the flare of torches.
He sat up, his heart pounding wildly.
Kynon of Shun lay beside him on the coral. He was quite dead, his head
encircled by a crown of fire, his side open to the white bone where
Delgaun's blade had struck.
The wound that Kynon himself had never felt.
The golden coffer was open. The second crown lay near Fianna, with the
rod beside it.
Stark looked at her, deep into her eyes. Very softly he said, "I would
not have dreamed it."
"You will understand, now--many things," she said. "And I was glad of
my power today, because I could truly give you life!"
She rose, and he saw that she was very tired. Her voice was dull, as
though it counted over old things that no longer mattered.
"You see why I was afraid. If _they_ had ever suspected that I, too,
was of the Twice-Born ... Berild or Delgaun, each alone, I might have
destroyed, but I could not destroy both of them. And if I had, there
was still Kynon. You did what I could not, Eric John Stark."
"Why were you against them, Fianna? How were you proof against the
poison that made them what they were?"
She answered angrily, "Because I am weary of evil, of scheming for
power and shedding the blood of men as though they were sheep! I am no
better than Berild was. I, too, have lived a long time, and my hands
are not clean. But perhaps, by what you helped me do, I have made up a
little for my sins."
She paused, her thoughts turned darkly inward, and it was strange to
see the shadow of age touching her sweet young face. Then she said,
very slowly, like an old, old woman speaking,
"I am weary of living. No matter where I go, I am a stranger. You can
understand that, though not so well as I. There is an end to pleasure,
and after that only loneliness is left.
"I have remembered that I was human once. That is why I set myself
against their plan of empire. After all these ages I have come round
full circle to the starting point, and things seem to me now as they
seemed then, before I was tempted by the Sending-on of Minds.
"It is a wicked thing!" she cried suddenly. "Against nature and the
gods, and it has never brought anything but evil!"
She caught up the rod and held it in her hands.
"This is the last," she said. "Cities die, and nations perish, and
material things, even such as these, are destroyed. One by one the
Twice-Born have perished also, through accident or swift disease or
murder, as Berild would have slain Delgaun. Now only this, and I, are
left."
* * * * *
Quite suddenly, she flung the rod against the coral, and it broke in a
cloudy flame and a tinkling of crystal shards. Then, one by one, she
broke the crowns.
She stood still for a long moment. Then she whispered, "Now only I am
left."
Again there was silence, and Stark was shaken by the magnitude of the
thing that she had done. Her slim girl's body somehow took on the
stature of a goddess.
After a while he went to her and said awkwardly, "I have not thanked
you, Fianna. You brought me here, you saved me...."
"Kiss me once, then," she answered, and raised her lips to his. "For I
love you, Eric John Stark--and that is the pity of it. Because I am not
for you, nor for any man."
He kissed her, very tenderly, and there was the bitter taste of tears
on her soft lips.
"Now come," she whispered, and took his hand.
She led him back through the labyrinth, into the palace, and then out
again into the streets of Sinharat. Stark saw that it was sunset, and
that the city was deserted. The tribes of Kesh and Shun had broken camp
and gone.
There was a beast ready for him, supplied with food and water. Fianna
asked him where he wished to go, and pointed the way to Tarak.
"And you?" he asked. "Where will you go, little one?"
"I have not thought." She lifted her head, and the wind played with her
dark hair. She did not smile, and yet suddenly Stark knew that she was
happy.
"I am free of a great burden," she whispered. "I shall stay here for a
while, and think, and after that I shall know what to do. But whatever
it is there will be no evil in it, and in the end I shall rest."
He mounted, and she looked up at him, with a look that wrung his heart
although it was not sad.
"Go now," she said, "and the gods go with you."
"And with you." He bent and kissed her once again, and then rode away,
down to the coral cliffs.
Far out on the desert he turned and looked back, once, at the white
towers of Sinharat rising against the larger moon.